


Striking

by lookupkate



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/F, Fluff, Jane Watson - Freeform, Jane is 36, Sherlock is 28, Student!Jane, Teacher!Sherlock, Teacher/Student, and it's my bloody story, because I don't like the name joan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2018-09-23 06:00:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9643580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookupkate/pseuds/lookupkate
Summary: Sherlock is teaching journalism in the Masters program at the local uni. Jane, just back from war, is changing professions and going back to her minor in journalism. Both as without a soulmate, but not for long.Moytura listed as co-author as they came up with the prompt and is going to indulge us with some fan art!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



It was difficult enough going back to school at thirty-six, let alone the fact that the vast majority of the younger students had soul mates and her mother was still trying to beg her off on some poor sod stuck in the same situation, but doing so with a psychosomatic limp and a shoulder that always grew stiff in the cold was a bit much. 

The limp and shoulder, she couldn't fix, so it had to be set aside in her mind. The fact that her mother wouldn't give up on her settling down and popping out three kids, she was still working on.

It was said that less than three percent of the population hadn't found their soulmate by twenty, but it had to be more than that, as she'd had stilted dinners with five men in the year since she returned from Afghanistan. Five failures to settle, her mother would say.

In all honesty, she was completely content being an old maid at such a young age. She had an incredible amount of baggage, what with her alcoholic father and time in war, and she was really too exhausted to explain herself to someone new. 

Men never liked her countenance, wanting her to be softer around the edges, not so bloody masculine. The ones she had dated, before giving that up completely, needed to be comfortable enough in their masculinity to appreciate a woman with war stories and a lack of housekeeping skills. Unfortunately, those men tended to be army themselves, and took the whole 'be a man' thing a bit too seriously.

Dating men was teaching them to be better people fifty-percent of the time. She wasn't the type to let her partner slack off on the emotional labor, let alone the laundry, and so she found herself alone over and over again.

There had been one man that had been different, but he'd found his soulmate just as soon as she realised what they could have together.

Being alone in a world full of happy couples was a bit like being at war; you had to give in, and start to like the taste of your own blood.  
_____

The first day of school, it was monstrous outside. The rain was molesting anyone it could manage to get to, mangling umbrellas and tearing them from people's hands as they exited cars. The wind made roaring sounds outside while Jane sat and drank her coffee.

After years in Afghanistan she had really missed the rain, but on days like that, where things had been more than wet for weeks on end, she felt a sort of nostalgia for the sun and sand. Nostalgia is tricky, though, because it always comes in that particular rosy shade that makes you forget all the shit parts of the past. She supposed that was why people never realised they were in the good old days while they were. 

The door to Jane's right slapped open with a loud bang, the wind holding it that way as a large figure cloaked in black stomped in. Jane watched as said figure cursed colourfully and pulled the door closed with two loud grunts. 

"Bloody, useless," the woman growled, Jane getting the first look of her as she tossed the large coat to the ground and revealed her true form.

She wasn't large after all, just bogged down by three shoulder bags and a broken umbrella. She let all of her things fall to the floor and unfurled to her full height and Jane found herself staring. Her hair was a tangle of messy curls, bobbing and seeming to grow before Jane's eyes. The humidity was cruel to this woman.

"Can I get some damned coffee?" the woman asked, speaking to no one in particular and reaching into her pocket for a hair tie, wrestling her curls into submission with a frown.

Jane found herself jumping up and pouring her a cup from the table that had been laid out. She held up the cream in one hand and the sugar in the other and smiled when the tall woman nodded towards the sugar. She added some and brought it over.

"You're new," the woman said, taking the cup and stepping over the pile of things she had obviously decided to leave where they landed.

"Yes," Jane managed, finding herself pulled closer to the woman, inexplicably.

"I'll take a bagel as well, toasted, plain," the woman replied, going and sitting right next to Jane's seat, facing the window.

"Oh," Jane sputtered, "I don't work here. I'm a student."

"Then why did you bring me coffee?" the woman shot back suspiciously, eyes narrowing.

"You...said that-" Jane started.

"I know what I said," the woman replied, hopping to her feet and stalking near.

"Alright," Jane said weakly.

"You're accommodating. We need more students like you. What are you studying?" the woman asked.

"Journalism," Jane answered, holding her hand out. "Jane Watson."

The woman looked at her hand and took it quickly. "Sherlock. Are you quite sure we haven't met?"

Jesus, Jane thought, how on earth could I forget a woman like you?

"Quite," she answered.

"You seem..." the woman, Sherlock, said, still holding onto Jane's hand as she moved closer, "familiar. It's unnerving."

Jane's mouth opened but she really had nothing to say. Sherlock was very definitely not familiar, though she was striking and Jane had felt almost assaulted with her presence from the first moment.

"What do you suppose it is," Sherlock continued, looking Jane over carefully, "the thing that makes you feel familiar. Don't say your face, which isn't at all memorable. Except maybe your eyes, but no, that's not it."

"Sorry? There's something wrong with my face?" Jane asked, pulling her hand away.

"Conventionally attractive. I wouldn't have noticed you in a crowd, and yet..."

"Is that meant to be a compliment? Cause it's coming out quite shit," Jane replied, feathers ruffled to the Nth degree.

"You've caught my attention, isn't that compliment enough?" Sherlock asked, looking completely certain it was.

"Look here," Jane snapped. "You might be pretty, in that public school, limited gene pool sort of way, but I don't know where you get off, thinking-"

"Oh," Sherlock murmured, stopping Jane in her tracks.

"Oh, what?" Jane growled.

"You're quite striking when you're angry," Sherlock replied, sounding a bit breathless. 

Jane snorted, not sure what to do with that information.

"And while I'd so like to pick that apart, you're about to be late for your first class," Sherlock added.

Jane looked at her watch and cursed under her breath, grabbing her things and drinking down the end of her coffee before jogging to the door. She paused with her hand on the knob and turned her head. "How did you know when my class starts?"

"Because I'm teaching it," Sherlock replied with a slight grin.


	2. Dr Watson

Jane paused at that. Sherlock, that would make her Sherlock Holmes. In all honesty, she'd imagined some grizzled ex reporter when she had seen the name in print. Sherlock wasn't old enough to be grizzled, and barely looked old enough to be a TA.

Sherlock raised her eyebrows, enjoying how off kilter Jane was, and Jane decided that was about enough of that.

"Then you'll be late as well, what with all your things on the floor," she said with a shrug, leaving the building and slogging through the rain to the right building.

_____

By the time Sherlock made it to the class, the students were chatting away and not paying attention. She shook her things so the water fell in the entry and went to her desk, only looking up long enough to see Jane, the student she'd just met, in the front row.

She scratched the palm of her right hand and hissed, looking down to find a rash there. She did have sensitive skin, though, so it didn't raise any immediate red flags. The red flags that were raised had been raised the second she met Jane. She knew something about the woman was important, but she couldn't put her finger on it.

"If you'll settle down, we can begin our discussion on what led you to make the terrible decision of signing up for my course," she said, sitting on the edge of her desk so that her stiletto heels nearly brushed the front of Jane's desk when she crossed her legs. "Dr Watson. Why don't you start?"

A look of surprise! Oh, she hadn't realised that Sherlock would look her up! Perfect, score 1/0. (It had taken less than five minutes to find out everything that her presence couldn't tell Sherlock about Jane, hence her late arrival.)

"I, uh, think there are some stories that just need to be told," Jane choked out. "Your class looked like the most comprehensive."

Sherlock paused and smiled, unconsciously scratching her hand. "Yes, comprehensive. Rigorous. And you're up for that challenge, are you?" Sherlock asked, hopping to her feet and gripping the edges of the desk.

Jane swallowed roughly and nodded. She was overwhelmed, yes, but her instinct was to push back instead of crumble. It raised a sort of heat in Sherlock's veins to see the struggle between instinct and societal norms.

"Respectfully, ma'am, I doubt there's anything you can throw at me that would top my time in Kandahar," Jane said, one eyebrow raising. "And I'm no longer in the profession, so Ms Watson will suffice."

The air in the room was filled with energy as students looked back and forth to see what on earth was going to happen next.

"Ms Watson," Sherlock said, softer than before, but still with an edge of teeth, "I will endeavor to surprise you."

_____

Sherlock wasn't joking when she'd said rigorous. The class had been a whirlwind. The students that had waited to buy their books were chastised for doing so as the coursework began immediately. Jane was happy to have everything, and eager to prove she bloody belonged there.

If Sherlock thought that she was as bad as they came, she had some learning to do herself. Even as other students might wilt under the pressure, Jane thrived, always had done. And now, now she felt a bit more alive in the face of it.

At the end of class, Sherlock stopped her at the door and nodded towards her desk. She walked back with a sigh and waited while the other students left. When the door to the lecture hall finally closed for the last time, Sherlock leaned towards her with a grin.

"You want to go back," she said confidently.

Jane drew in a quick breath and clenched her jaw. "You looked me up. Why?"

Sherlock sat down in her chair and flung her long legs up onto the edge of the desk, apparently uncaring when it came to any sort of modesty, as her trousers were tight and grew tighter in that position. "I told you, you have my attention."

"And what if I don't want it," Jane ventured, even though it wasn't true.

Sherlock smiled and cocked her head to the side. "Oh, but you do. You want a challenge. You're back from war, a bit worse for wear, and you want to know that you aren't weak. You signed up for this class to be pushed to your limits mentally, as physically seems to be on the back burner now. You figure that if you can get back to Afghanistan because of your brain, it will be enough. You're interested in writing about the people you used to serve with. I think you can get the same feeling on British soil."

"I..." Jane tried, her heart beating faster.

"You need me," Sherlock purred. "And I need a bagel."

And, oh, Jane really hadn't meant to laugh. She was going to tell Sherlock to stick it, but her persistence was somehow endearing, and having her whole life laid out like that had set her on edge. It started out as a snort, and turned into a fit of giggles. 

Sherlock stared at her, perplexed, and she tried to explain. "Sorry, sorry, it's just, you said that like you really thought I would do it."

Sherlock frowned and pulled her legs off the desk to stand.

"But," Jane added quickly, "if you are really hungry, we could go for lunch. I've nothing on till two and I'd love to know how you figured me out so easily."

"You," Sherlock said, trailing off and taking a deep breath, "you'd love to know?"

Jane chuckled again. "Course. It was brilliant."

"You think so?"

"Yeah, truly brilliant," Jane answered.

Sherlock seemed to relax a bit and nodded. "Alright. Lunch it is. Although, not at the cafeteria, I seem to have contracted some sort of rash from the coffee they serve there."

Jane nodded and wondered if she'd soon come down with it as well.


	3. Art Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My small way of saying thank you to Kate.

[](http://s36.photobucket.com/user/Moytura/media/PSFix_20170210_231717_zps4ycaa9v8.jpeg.html)


	4. Haven't Got One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The girls go out for food.

They found a place to eat just off campus and Jane ordered a full English while Sherlock stuck with her insistence on a bagel. While they were waiting for the food, Jane tried to pick Sherlock apart a bit more. She was incredibly interested at that point, whether willing to admit it or not.

"You really think reporting in London could be as exciting as Afghanistan?" she asked, watching as Sherlock scratched absently at her hand.

"London's underbelly is a lot rougher than the average citizen is comfortable believing. All you need is a good head on your shoulders and a contact at the Met. You'd be surprised at the cases I've covered just in the last four months. Corporate espionage is also interesting, and London is perfect for that as well," Sherlock answered smoothly, the bit of discomfort that had shown through her thick veneer earlier had evaporated. "And, of course, it can get a bit dangerous."

The waiter brought their food and Jane started in on her eggs. 

"And your soulmate doesn't care? That you get yourself into dangerous situations?" Jane asked, really just trying to tease the woman. (Uncertainty brought a certain charm to Sherlock.)

Sherlock stilled and glanced up from her plate. "Haven't got one."

It hit Jane like a punch to the gut, but she tried not to show it. "Oh? And...are you single?"

Sherlock looked at her, nose scrunched up, and Jane realised how obvious she must have been. She tried to dial it back.

"I didn't see a ring, is all."

Sherlock scratched harder at her hand, eyes not leaving Jane's, and Jane held her hand out. Sherlock cocked her head to the side and Jane wriggled her fingers. 

"Let me have a look at your hand. Haven't lost all the knowledge I had as doctor, yet," Jane said, trying to be patient.

Sherlock carefully extended her hand and opened it, palm up. The area right in the middle of her palm was a mottled red.

"Looks like it hurts," Jane said, pulling a small bag from her rucksack and retrieving an alcohol swab. 

Sherlock hummed and watched as Jane cleaned the small cut that was almost obscured by the angry skin, and applied some salve. The cream was cold and caused Sherlock to pull her hand back a bit at the touch, but she relaxed again and Jane was able to place a plaster over the area before letting go of her wrist.

"You think that happened in the cafeteria?" Jane asked, going back to her food after packing everything safely away.

"Obviously. It wasn't there before we-" Sherlock trailed off, eyes flitting over Jane. "Let me see your left palm."

Jane hesitated and Sherlock rolled her eyes and held her hand out, as Jane had just done. Jane acquiesced and saw, for the first time, the mark there. It made her stomach lurch slickly and she felt a bit ill. She still had a bit of nerve damage, and it was unsettling whenever she was confronted with it.

"How long has," Sherlock started. "-Oh, you hadn't realised."

Jane pulled her hand back and tried to focus on her meal.

"What are you doing tonight?" Sherlock asked, apropos of nothing.

Jane cleared her throat and refused to look up just yet. "Don't have plans, why?"

"Because you're coming with me on a stakeout," Sherlock said, pulling a pen from her jacket and scrawling an address on a paper napkin. "Be there at nine."

Jane was shocked as Sherlock stood and pulled on her coat, apparently leaving already. "You're going?"

Sherlock nodded curtly. "Yes. I have things to get ready. Wear dark clothes and bring your gun, just in case."

Jane was gobsmacked, mouth hanging open and everything. There was no way the woman should know about her illegal firearm. She wanted to ask how she knew, but her brain was scrambling to even believe she had said what she had. 

The only thing it could manage was a strange squeak and a change of subject. "You didn't eat your bagel."

Sherlock paused and looked down at the table, as if she had forgotten all about the thing. "Oh, that wasn't for eating. I'll see you tonight."

Jane was once again struck dumb as the woman turned, coat swaying as she did, and left. 

(Jane's thumb had found the scratch on her palm and was worrying it.)


	5. Uncommon Marks and Their Meanings

Impossible. Absolutely impossible. Sherlock didn't have a soulmate. She didn't. And it wasn't just a matter of not having found hers, of that she was sure, it was that there simply wasn't one made. It was the only thing that had ever made sense. She was peculiar and determined and damn sure that no one, not one single person on the face of the earth, was meant for her.

...there had been a time when it didn't feel that way. When she was young she dreamt of the person who would understand her like herself, the person who she would never argue with. Arguing seemed to be the only pastime she shared with children her age, and her mother told her that she'd never find her soulmate if she continued to be so disagreeable.

Now, mind you, her mother had only said that once. She was always telling Sherlock there was someone perfect for her out there, but that seemed like an empty platitude after her true feelings came out. The words stuck with Sherlock, as is often the case when adults blabber away to children without thinking, and they hadn't faltered in her mind until that very day at the cafe.

She pulled her gloves off as she stumbled through the front door of her flat, tossing them to the floor in a fit, because the mark was still there under the plaster.

"Gone and hurt yourself?" Mr Hudson asked, walking over from the kitchen where he had been drying plates, and looking at her hand.

Sherlock snatched it out of view and stomped through to her bedroom. "None of your business!"

With the old man grumbling out of sight Sherlock turned the light on and looked at the mark more closely. It was...perfect. A small, red, crescent moon in the middle of her palm, and already scabbing over. It was one of the most uncommon soulmate marks, which was why it had taken her so long to recognise it as such. 

She went to the bookcase in the sitting room, tossing books over her shoulder, to Mr Hudson's dismay, until she found the one she needed. 

Uncommon Marks and Their Meanings

She flipped through the pages until she found it. The sketch was a mirror image of her hand, the words below it making her sway on her feet.

'Thought to affect one pair out of every one-hundred-thousand, the crescent mark is made when soulmates, formerly unmatched, meet after one has nearly died. The near death experience is thought to be what causes the match to take hold so quickly. These soulmates will feel a more intense pull than other matches, and may even become adversarial at first. Nevertheless, the bond will strengthen, and the match will be harmonious.'

"I have a soulmate," Sherlock whispered, laughing hysterically for a second, before passing out cold.


	6. You Know The Drill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, hello. Back from hiatus. Might take me a while to get back into the swing of things.
> 
> This chapter is pure drama. That is all.

Jane sat on the edge of the bed in the flat she was renting near the university and ran a towel through her hair as the rain pounded on the window. She still thought of it as ‘the’ bed and not ‘her’ bed, even though she had been sleeping in it going on three whole months. It occurred to her that she hadn’t truly had her own bed since she was a child. She still felt as though her bunk overseas would have suited her better still. There was something about the sheets that, though they were much better quality, didn’t feel right.   
She glanced down at the paper bag containing Sherlock’s uneaten bagel and sighed. Yes, she’d brought the bagel home, even though she had no intention of eating it. She had also taken the extra packet of butter and the horrid strawberry jam from the cafeteria table. She sighed and carefully lay all three on the bed next to her, wondering if she would have the nerve to add ‘food hoarding’ to her list of symptoms when she saw the therapist again, or if she would convince herself that it wasn’t that big of a deal.   
Her mobile dinged right as she was getting up to throw the evidence away, and she dropped back onto the edge of the bed with a sigh and read the text.

CHANGE OF PLANS, MEET NOW AT SAME ADDRESS. WILL PROVIDE LUNCH IF NEEDED. BRING WEAPON. SH

That frisson of heat was back in her belly as she realised who the sender was, heat easily tempered with agitation.

AND HOW DID YOU GET MY NUMBER?

NO TIME FOR EXPLANATION. COME NOW, OR MISS THE STORY. SH

Jane sighed and went to the small desk in the corner to retrieve her revolver. She glanced around the cramped bedsit once more before tucking her trusty weapon into the waist of her denims and pulling her boots back on. 

Her mobile let out one more complaint as she locked up, but she ignored it, the only thing on her mind being the story.

\-----

 

At first Sherlock wondered if she’d made the right choice by telling Jane not to come. Jane was, most probably, her soulmate and that changed things significantly. She hadn’t received a response after she’d texted Jane the last-minute warning, but she wasn’t sure that her mobile was even working after the thrashing it had taken in the scuffle. The screen was caked in mud, and had been kicked halfway across the parking garage by a man who definitely played footy with his mates on the weekend.

“That was bloody rude,” she spat, sneering at the man who was now holding her bag and voice recorder.

“Quite a mouth on this one,” he shouted over his shoulder to his boss.

“Miss Holmes has quite a few bad habits,” the boss replied, walking out of the shadows in a way Sherlock had to admit was impressively dramatic.

She hadn’t recognised the man until he’d shown his face, and now she was wondering if calling off the backup had been such a good idea.

“Terrence, I should have smelled you a mile away, what with the cheesy backlighting and all of the fake gold. When exactly did you switch from drugs to fraud?” Sherlock asked, smiling primly at her former dealer.

The muscle tossed her bag aside and crossed his arms as Terry moved closer. For a second Sherlock thought she was going to get out of the situation unscathed. 

“Sherly,” Terry said with a grin.

“Don’t call me that,” Sherlock spat.

“You still owe me 200 quid,” Terry continued, pulling a comically long blade from his belt. “I think I’ll take it in blood.”

Sherlock took a hesitant step back as Terry’s bodyguard pulled out some rope and nodded to the only chair in the mostly empty car lot. A chair that was apparently there for a purpose. She was blocked on three sides by concrete, and her only chance of escape seemed to be overpowering the goon. She was just thinking of whether she could use her necklace as a possible garrote when her hand began to burn.

“If you try that, I’ll scream and someone will call the police,” she replied, emphasizing the last three words in an attempt to clue Jane in on the seriousness of the situation. She wasn’t even sure if Jane was close enough to hear her yet.

The bodyguard moved closer as Sherlock’s eyes darted around the room for Jane. 

“Still buggering that Constable, are you?” Terry teased, knowing full well how much the implication bothered Sherlock.

“He’s made it to DI, and we were never buggering,” Sherlock replied as the bodyguard grabbed her by the shoulder and dragged her towards the chair. 

There was a thud just behind Terry, and Sherlock bent to pull off a shoe in the second the bodyguard was distracted. 

What happened next took place in a matter of seconds. Sherlock jammed the sensible heel directly into the bodyguard’s right eye as he turned back, quickly disabusing him of the notion that she was going to go easy whilst snatching the rope from the man’s hands as blood started to flow from the socket. Ahead of them, Sherlock was just able to make out Jane’s silhouette as the butt of her gun came down on Terry’s head. The man crumpled behind her as she kneed the bodyguard in the groin hard, and pushed him into the chair.  
Jane was at her side then, helping her get the rope around the man’s considerable girth. Once he was tied up Jane went to Terry and rolled him onto his side. The bright lights from a squad car, and the sirens that always accompanied them, assaulted their senses as the two of them shared a panicked look.

The first of three cop cars came to a halt as Jane made it back to Sherlock’s side, and the mentioned DI jumped out, sporting more gray than Sherlock remembered from their last interaction.

“Last time I looked, you weren’t on the fraud squad,” Lestrade said, taking out pair of cuffs and clipping them to Terry’s wrists.

“Every citizen has the right to get their palm read, officer,” Sherlock replied.

Jane glanced back and forth between the two of them with what looked like trepidation. 

“Who’s this?” Lestrade asked, seemingly seeing Jane for the first time.

“Sidekick,” Sherlock said.

“Colleague,” Jane corrected.

“Since when have you got a colleague?” asked a slim woman checking over Terry for a wallet.

Sherlock ignored the woman and introduced Jane to Lestrade, walking the three of them towards the entrance to the building, after retrieving her bag. “Jane goes everywhere with me.”

Lestrade looked them over, noting the protective way Jane was blocking Sherlock’s right side, and decided it wasn’t really worth the struggle to find out who the hell this new woman was now. That would be handled at the station.

“You know the drill,” he said. “And this time it seems your shoe is evidence. Why don’t you let me give you a ride back to the station this once?”

Sherlock pulled a worn pair of trainers out of her scratched up attaché and rolled her eyes. “I’m hardly a damsel in distress, Lestrade. You should know that by now. Bring my backup mobile with you when you find it, I’m fairly certain it’s broken. We’ll catch a cab back to the Yard.”

And with that, she skip-hopped into her shoes and went to hail a cab. Jane held her hand out to shake Lestrade’s and the man took it.

“Do I have to worry about you?” he asked, looking her in the eye for the first time.

“Not as much as you worry about her, I reckon,” Jane said with an earnest smile.

Lestrade snorted and waved her away, watching as she took off running to catch up with Sherlock.

\-----  
Jane slid in next to Sherlock in the back of the cab as it started to pull away from the kerb.

“What you did back there…” Sherlock said, voice serious, “it was good. I take it you stashed the gun?”

Jane gave a curt nod and then started to laugh. She couldn’t help herself, it had just felt so bloody good.

“Something funny?” Sherlock asked, sounding a bit upset.

“Your shoe is evidence, I just knocked a man out cold, and I have no idea what that was all about,” Jane replied. “Yet this is the best I’ve felt in months. I could kiss you.”

Sherlock looked up at that and smiled back at Jane, thinking to herself that she agreed with that statement perhaps more than she should. Her hand all but throbbed in response.


	7. Verdict?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The girls get closer.

“You were getting your palm read?” Jane asked, finally finished laughing and eager to hear about what happened.

“Not really. I had a hunch that the local palm readers were all run by the same people who have been getting guns through customs. The Romani mob, I guess you could say. I went win with a fake story and someone recognised me,” Sherlock explained.

“The guy with the knife?” Jane asked, eyes intense. “He knows you.”

Sherlock nodded once. “We were...known to each other long ago. I haven’t spoken with him in years. I didn’t realise he was related to the family I was going after. Fraud has been on the case for months, raiding psychics all over town. I knew there was a story, I just didn’t realise how dangerous it would be until the last minute.”

“Is that why you told me not to come? I didn’t see the text until I was almost there,” Jane replied. 

Sherlock remembered what had crossed her mind. She couldn’t exactly tell Jane that she suspected they were soulmates, because...because...well, because she wanted it to be true. It was one of those things made of gossamer that might fall apart if treated without care. Instead of answering she fiddled with her bag and tucked a curl behind her ear.

“Good thing I didn’t turn around,” Jane added, still grinning from the adrenaline.

Sherlock scrunched up her nose at that. “I had just about put together a plan.”

“And they had just about tied you to a chair,” Jane replied, raising an eyebrow.

“Your assistance was appreciated, let's leave it at that,” Sherlock replied quickly, picking at the edge of the plaster on her hand.

Jane pulled her hand into her lap and shook her head, letting it lay there as she got out a new one. “You have to stop messing with it, or it won’t heal.”

How long had it been since someone had held her so gently? It was almost overwhelming this time. She’d already felt Jane’s rough fingers before, but each time it seemed to get more urgent. There was a flip-flopping of her belly and a warmth in her cheeks, and she felt so human.

“Sherlock?” Jane asked, for the second time.

She must have zoned out a bit, as they had arrived at the destination and the cabbie was starting to look a bit cross. Jane smiled at her as though she was being charming, and got out, running to the overhang with her hands over her head. Sherlock paid the cabbie and followed.

——-

It took quite a bit of time to explain the whole mob ordeal to Lestrade, and Jane was starving when they were finally allowed to leave the station. She could feel the hunger starting to make her frantic, but didn’t want to complain. It wasn’t in her nature, she thought, to be comfortable with complaining over small things like personal comfort. No, she would much rather let the list of wrongs fester until she could have a full breakdown.

She must have been scowling something awful, because when they finally made it through all the bureaucracy and were readying to go back out into the rain, Sherlock cleared her throat and reminded Jane that she’d been promised food. It was going on early evening by then, and she didn’t have a thing in at her place besides a half empty box of digestives and an array of single serving condiments, so she agreed.

They ended up in a poorly lit Chinese restaurant, seated near the kitchen. The delivery door was open, and the winds were howling and thrashing things about. The sky outside was almost dark enough to be confused with dusk. Anyone else would have felt cheated with the venue, but Jane felt right at home in the thick of it.

“The Peking duck is superb,” Sherlock said, sitting back in the booth and not bothering with a menu.

“How often do you have to call for police backup?” Jane asked, not glancing up from the table.

“I told you it could be dangerous,” Sherlock replied. “You came running.”

Jane chuckled and picked up the menu. “True. Must be something wrong with me.”

“I think that’s the Army bit,” Sherlock teased.

Jane rolled her eyes, and Sherlock grinned.

“You called me ma’am today,” she pressed.

Jane snorted and hung her head, peeking at Sherlock through her wet fringe. “Won’t happen again,” she said. 

Sherlock felt warmth expand in her chest and she was suddenly brave. “You’re lonely.”

Jane choked a bit on her tea. “Pardon?”

“You need excitement. You’re the type of person who needs a challenge. You haven’t been in a real relationship in a long time, going by the fact that your most expensive items are hand me downs from your older brother. Your brother, who just divorced his wife. It’s difficult to be optimistic in a world where you’ve been left behind. No soulmate, no partner, no income. I propose a solution.”

Sherlock said it all so confidently that Jane was struck silent. Instead of telling the woman to fuck right off, she just sat there.

“I need an assistant. I would be able to pay you a bit under the table and can offer you the room upstairs for half rent. If we both go in on utilities, it won’t be bad at all. You could well afford it with your pension, and you wouldn’t have to live alone,” Sherlock explained.

Jane felt like she was about to break out in either laughter or tears. “You’re asking me to move in with you? We only met today. Don’t you think that’s a little bit...forward?”

Sherlock smiled and leaned in, speaking just loudly enough to be heard over the pounding rain. “I have what you need. I enjoy your presence. What more is there to know?”

Jane sat for a second, not sure why it felt like a threat to her self image to say yes. She did need the money, and getting out of that terrible bedsit would be nice, but wasn’t this too much? 

“Are you always this confident?” she asked, laughing nervously and trying to find her grip.

“I’m surrounded by mediocre men who think they’re god’s gift to writing, I have to be confident. If I refused to ask for exactly what I wanted, I would still be in the mail room of the local paper,” Sherlock replied, hiding her insecurities in false bravado. 

They sat for a long few seconds before the waiter came and took their order. After he’d left, Jane sat back and smiled. Her mind was chanting one thing over and over again: She wants me. She wants me. She wants me.

“Verdict?” Sherlock asked, sounding the smallest bit concerned.

“Give me the week to think?” Jane asked, giddiness nearly boiling over.

“Come back with me tonight,” Sherlock replied (and didn’t it sound like a pickup line?). “You won’t need the full week.”

‘Yes,’ Jane thought, ‘I’d like nothing more.’


	8. Stories To Tell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting a little hot in here.

There was a twenty-something waiting on the doorstep of 221 when Sherlock and Jane got there. Sherlock excused herself and spoke quietly to the girl for a few moments before taking an envelope from her and turning to unlock the door. Jane watched the girl leave uneasily. She was pretty and young, much closer to Sherlock’s age than herself, and the flip of Jane’s stomach had her scratching at her hand. Jealousy never looked good on Jane, and she was more than a bit surprised to have it raise its ugly head just then.

She didn’t have long to think on it, though, as Sherlock stepped back out and grabbed Jane’s hand when it was noticed that she wasn’t still nipping at her heels.

“Quiet now, Mr H falls asleep in his favourite chair about now, and I’d rather not deal with him tutting over you all night,” Sherlock whispered, her gloved hand still wrapped tightly around Jane’s as they climbed the stairs in the dark to the second storey.

The moment the lights were switched on in the flat, Sherlock had let go and was flitting about in an obvious attempt to clean up. An attempt that only served to show how nervous she actually was. Jane glanced around, and, even with all the clutter, she couldn’t help but smile. It was the type of flat she’d always imagined when she’d thought of home whilst abroad. Three types of paper on the walls at least, worn rugs and needlepoint pillows, a good sized fireplace. It even smelled of tea under the tinge of tobacco smoke (something she had quite a few thoughts on).

“Your bedroom would be upstairs,” Sherlock said, interrupting Jane’s thoughts and looking flustered. “Can I interest you in a drink?”

Jane snorted and took a seat at what had to be the kitchen table, the poor thing all but obscured by newspaper, books, and notes. “Shouldn’t.”

Sherlock turned to her slowly and Jane could have sworn something glimmered in her eyes.

“Two shots of bourbon and a pint. Not more than you can handle, I’m sure. I want to hear all about Afghanistan, and then you can just sleep here. The bed is freshly made,” Sherlock pressed.

Jane chuckled and shook her head, a sort of fondness taking over the earlier apprehension. “Jesus, you don’t pussy-foot around, do you?” 

“You have stories to tell,” Sherlock replied, going to the far cabinet and bringing out a bottle of amber liquid and mismatched shot glasses on a small tray. “So tell them, Watson.”

The frisson of heat that sent down Jane’s spine was exhilarating, if not wholly new, and she found herself licking her lips and nodding once. ‘Hell, what have I got myself into?’ she wondered.

——-

“-and he said,” Jane spat, half empty pint glass sloshing in her hand, “he said I was almost as beautiful as his mum!”

Sherlock choked on her drink and burst out laughing as well, their knees knocking together warmly in the small kitchen. It turned out that Jane was incredibly funny, and terribly close, after a few shots. Each story had Jane shifting closer, until they were sat there, nearly in each other’s laps, grinning. 

“You’re as pretty as my mum,” she said, giggling and leaning forward, “and my father has good taste.”

Jane squealed and laughed, shaking her body as though she could rid herself of the joyful disgust if she moved at the right tempo. “Don’t bring up your father!”

Sherlock steadied Jane by the shoulders, fingers lingering a bit. “Don’t say that. You haven’t even met him. Perhaps he’s your type.”

Jane grinned and raised her eyebrows, lips pursing tightly. “Not unless he’s exactly like you.”

There was a quiet moment when Sherlock thought things might turn South, but it passed. 

She should have said something, anything, about the marks on their hands. She meant to, really, but once she had Jane’s hand in hers and was looking down at it the words caught in her throat.

“Reading palms yourself now?” Jane teased. “Should I call Fraud myself? That Greg fellow seemed to be helpful enough.”

Sherlock pressed Jane’s hand flat on her thigh and stared at the mark. “Your hands are-“

“In need of lotion,” Jane interrupted, pulling back and standing on uneasy feet. “As I’m in need of sleep. The bed upstairs still free? Don’t really feel like climbing into a cab just now.”

Sherlock struggled to her feet and tried to clear her mind.

“Of course, I could take the sofa, if-“ Jane continued, nervously.

“No, no. The bed is all yours. I’ll just,” Sherlock blurted, trying to clear the table a bit.

“Then I’ll,” Jane said, nodding towards the loo. 

Sherlock nodded and continued to fuss until Jane had left. Christ, she was being so obvious, so needy. She had to slow things down a bit before she just went in for a bloody kiss...unless...unless she’d read it all wrong and Jane had simply meant to become her friend. Unless the mark on her hand was healing fine under the bandage, and wasn’t going to scar after all. Unless she’d made a fool of herself.

She was pulled out of her thoughts when Jane came back out of the loo, hair a bit more under control, but cheeks just as rosy.

“Just up there?” Jane asked, chewing on her lip and lingering at the door.

"Mmm," Sherlock replied, unable to even open her mouth properly.

Jane sighed and smiled, looking truly relaxed for the first time since they had met. She nodded once and moved to go.

“More blankets in the closet," Sherlock blurted. "If you get chilly." She felt her face flush and turned back to her room, hand on the doorknob. "And I’m just here. If you...if you need anything."

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” Jane said, voice pouring over Sherlock like warm caramel.

“Goodnight, Jane," she replied, waiting a beat before walking into her room and closing the door


End file.
